Poetry in Motion

26

There was an insurmountable sadness that was slowly growing, gnawing away from within Imelda's chest; she could feel it, this great unknown thing. And this thing just sat there, heavy and weighted. She couldn't quite name what exactly it was. But it was definitely there and the more time she spent trying to think about a way around it, or what to name this, it just seemed to grow.

It hit her rather late in the evening actually, and then she realised just what it was. What it truly was; it was despair, it was this great void of sad and unhappy feelings and thoughts which trailed off down equally dark avenues and were soon lost into a thousand pieces within her mind. She felt failed, in a way. She laid on her sofa, wrapped up in a blanket while underneath being rather comfortable in cosy lounge wear.

What clothes she wore out were replaced speedily with woolly cotton pyjama trousers and an overly stretched out t-shirt which had been in her wardrobe for as long as she could remember. She'd simply tied her hair up and off of her face before burying herself here, within a plethora of pillows and a blanket.

She could easily imagine she looked quite pathetic laying there, staring mindlessly at the television screen. Murray was on, and this in fact just made her face slowly scrunch to one of sadness. Her father truly was a fan, this show had been in her life for as long as she could remember, along with this outdated t-shirt...but she could envision what he would say about her being like this.

"The injustice of it all!" Or something dramatically exclaimed like that. Probably followed by; "Life's kicked you down, but it's only really kicked you down if you don't get back up." Imelda sniffled and wiped her eyes with a sleeve. As wise as he could be, it didn't seemingly stop his life coming to the end that it did.

She was under no illusion though, if he were alive and saw her, he'd want justice. Of course he would, his daughter, his only daughter was in this state and who was at fault? It felt awful, truly it did and Imelda never really felt it like this before, that being a statistic in a machine full of other statistics meant that really, she was forgotten; just like everyone else.

Don't get her wrong, she had had rough times before; losing her family had knocked her for six, she had failed to coast on through, life kicked her down then and she got back up. Albeit, harsher to the world, but that was her way of coping. What was different now? Imelda frowned as she numbly watched the television, what was different now?

Before she had a goal, a fruitless, stupid, idealistic goal that in hindsight, wasn't ever going to be achieved. Her take on the police force? She couldn't help but scoff, she was a fool. But it had been a driving force to get her up off her feet and move. What was there now? Imelda scrutinised her apartment from where she laid. Even from here she could hear that damn dripping tap in the bathroom.

The damn dripping tap that she had tried to get the landlord to fix several times because, well, part of the package deal really. If she fucked it up, she'd be blamed and she'd have to pay for expenses. Pay for expenses with money she definitely didn't have. Her point though was that her apartment wasn't really much to look at. She had made it homely, yes. But it wasn't much. Make the best with what she had was putting it lightly.

Her job, Imelda rolled her eyes, hell no was that worth the agony of losing braincells and energy over. It didn't even pay well, not even remotely well. It paid just enough for her to afford this place, and the bills. But even then, she had to scrimp. Imelda hated being retrospective, she really did. She had yet again been dealt a bad hand in life, and she was laying here trying to figure out where to go from here.

She guessed work. Not right now, but come tomorrow. That was step one, no matter how much it made the weighted feeling in her chest swell and grow. She was anxious, how could she not be? Maybe she could get away with being in the kitchen? Sure, she was employed as a waitress, but would anyone want service from a waitress who was still bruised and scraped? She hated to say it, but she wouldn't. She wouldn't even be able to lie, no. If she saw her in a shop, she wouldn't want to be served.